


Incense and Sunglasses on Orchard Street

by Elizabeth Perry (watersword)



Category: Young Wizards - Diane Duane
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 05:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watersword/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Perry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Seniors go on vacation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incense and Sunglasses on Orchard Street

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starlady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlady/gifts).



> A Yuletide Madness ficlet — my thanks to [Trialia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Trialia) for the super-quick beta.

This is how it started.

(The universe was created. Everything started there. But this particular story started a little later.)

"Oh, we should go on vacation," Tom muttered. "Take a break. You've been working too hard, Tom!" He turned to pick up a stack of messily-folded t-shirts, and glared at them. "I am _never listening_ to him again if it's not in the Speech," he told them.

Wizard's pets get strange after a while of prolonged exposure to the Speech; luckily, clothes are slower to pick up on the grammar and syntax of reality altering around them. Unluckily, Carl had a habit of fixing rips in his t-shirts with a muttered spell, and these t-shirts had moved to Long Island with them. They all turned yellow, and that was the last, the very _last_ straw.

"CARL ROMEO!" Tom yelled out the window.

"_What_?" Carl called back, not sounding nearly as worried as Tom felt he should have been.

"This thing about me packing is _bullshit_," he shouted. "Get your ass up here or I swear to God you will be spending our two-week vacation wearing Mardi Gras beads and _nothing else_."

"Will you be wearing Mardi Gras beads too?"

"No, and I will leave you and your Mardi Gras beads in a brothel for the local ghosts to molest if you aren't in this bedroom in five seconds," and before he turned around, there was a pop of displaced air and Carl was standing behind him, hands grubby and mouth amused.

Tom narrowed his eyes and wordlessly shoved the stack of yellow t-shirts into his arms. Yellow wasn't a particularly good color on Carl, making his skin even more olive, even if he was native to a planet heated by a yellow sun.

Carl looked at the shirts, moved an eyebrow in vague acknowledgment, and set them down. "I think you should go get a cup of coffee," he said. "I'm gonna go wash my hands now that the roses are mulched, and take on the manly, manly task of persuading our suitcases that they have that little bit more capacity." He suited the action to the word, wandering over to the attached bathroom, and rinsing the dirt off his fingers and wrists, and Tom retreated to the much more obliging company of the espresso machine in the kitchen.

He was still muttering balefully about "adapt the landscaping spellwork for your _genitals_" and "serve you right if the koi are all dead, come September" and "not enough beignets in the _world_" the next morning when they were in JFK. There weren't many other people in the lounge area for US Airways flight 2957, 10:45 to New Orleans — who goes to Louisiana in _August_? — and Tom felt wholly justified in claiming four seats to stretch out on and prop the Manual up on his stomach. Carl hadn't let him bring any actual work along, going so far as to frisk his pockets before he was allowed in the car, but the Manual was not in the same class.

There wasn't much detail as he was used to about the tristate area, or even the Atlantic Seaboard — the Manual always knows more than you do. The Gulf Coast, though, looked rich and dense and full of things to explore; out of habit, he checked his and Carl's status. "Oh, thank goodness," he murmured; they weren't on errantry, this wasn't the Powers moving their little free-willed chesspieces around on the board. This was a vacation.

As soon as they were allowed to embark, Carl kicked off his sneakers and tugged on an extra pair of thick socks. "Hey, darlin'," he murmured in the Speech, leaning his head against the cold plastic wall. "Looking forward to a good trip?"

Tom rolled his eyes; he never thought that charming the plane would make for a smoother flight, but it made Carl feel better, and after long enough, it was sort of adorable. He let Carl gossip with the plane, a nice young BAe 146 fresh off the factory line, and excited to be heading south, and settled down with the copy of Lud-in-the-Mist he had picked up two summers before. He was on vacation, dammit.

Six days later, he didn't ever want to see another beignet or bowl of gumbo, was sunburned along the left side of his face, had been hungover twice, and Carl's teethmarks were a throbbing, fantastic bruise on his bicep. They had explored a cemetery, chatted with a few delightful ladies of the night (who were indirectly responsible for the second of the two hangovers, not that he bore a grudge or anything), given endless belly rubs to a talkative stray dog named Kallen, eaten fried green tomatoes and shrimp remoulade for the first time, discovered three jazz and blues bands better than anything available in the West Village, and Tom had smeared [peanut butter pie](http://img4.cookinglight.com/i/2007/09/0709p192b-peanut-butter-pie-l.jpg?400:400) on Carl's chest and licked it off.

He couldn't quite remember why he hadn't wanted to come on this vacation, but he let Carl gloat and order another round of dirty martinis.

They staggered back to the B&amp;B around two in the morning, the air heavy and sweet, crackling with summer, or maybe that was Tom's skin as Carl's hand slipped into his back pocket. "Carl," he gasped, trying to sound stern, seniorly, and then gave it up for lost when Carl leaned over and licked the sweat off his neck. "_Carl_," he said again, but with a very different meaning. "Carl."

"You love it when I can't keep my hands off you," Carl murmured.

It was true, although whether it was true because it had always been true or because Carl had just made it true was debatable — in most ways, having a partner for twenty years made one's wizardry so much stronger and more flexible than it could ever be otherwise, but there were times when Tom wished his reality was a _little_ less malleable. Regardless, he groaned, swallowed hard, and pushed Carl away to fumble for the keys. "I do," he said, feeling the electricity that ran through all sentience as Carl stroked the fine, short hairs at the nape of his neck. "I — _Carl_ —"

"I gotcha," Carl murmured. "I gotcha, promise, come on, Tom, gotcha, just —"

He thought, when he woke up in the morning, that they had sweated all the alcohol out; his head was clear and the room was stifling, air bronzed at the edges with sullen heat. "...rl?" he mumbled, raising his head. Carl was sitting on the floor of the bathroom, cross-legged, head bowed over his Manual.

"Morning," Carl said, and he had _no right_to look that unhappy, not after a night spent biting Tom's hipbones and ruffling up the fine, rough hairs on his legs. "We're on errantry."

The rest is another story entirely. But that is how it started.

**Author's Note:**

> References used: [Josh Neufeld](http://www.smithmag.net/afterthedeluge/) and [Poppy Z. Brite](http://docbrite.livejournal.com/2005/08). This is, strictly speaking, a prequel to a much, much longer fic which ~~has not yet been finished~~ which will never be written, as it has become clear that there are offensive elements inherent in the premise.


End file.
